


two miles over the line

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M, a few mentions of beville, extremely madchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 16:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17984732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Football and music, beautiful without explanation. Manchester, beautiful. They had nowt else but that.





	two miles over the line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRF SHAZZA!!! IIIIIIII ADMIT I HAVEN'T READ THRU THIS BUT I WANTED TO GET IT OUT 4 U......kees......i loff ur sinning i loff ur writing i loff u !!! holds ur pawbs forever never change (xcept ur feelings re tottiwolf)

 

  

 

"We should start a band," says Gary, and it's only because of Gary's track record of coming up with stupid ideas every bloody day that Paul doesn't bat an eye.

"This is gonna be like your 'let's buy a football club' idea, isn't it?"

"That would've worked if we'd had money," Gary sniffs, flopping onto the bed where Paul's sat watching god knows what episode of _Emmerdale_. (Doesn't actually know any of their names, really; just good stuff to zone out to when Gary's talking.) "M'serious, though. You're solid on drums. I can play the guitar."

"Define 'can'."

Gary reaches over for a pillow and smacks him with it.

"You in or what?"

"I'm always in," Paul says, not turning away from the telly to dignify Gary with any kind of physical response.

 

 

 

Paul's known Gary for years. He's starting to think that only people who've known Gary for years have any chance of putting up with him. They'd grown up together with Boundary Park - or more accurately Paul had kicked Gary to shite before Gary'd joined Boundary Park - and that was that. Sometimes the mates you made as a twelve-year-old in a Saturday league football team just sort of stuck, unfortunately or not.

Helped that Gary liked talking. Rather balanced out Paul's staunch dislike of opening his mouth for anything other than the chippie.

Helped that they both liked United. Well. If _liked_ meant obsessed, meant screaming in the K Stand, meant kicking balls against the wall long after dinner in the hopes that they'd be picked for the academy. It's just hard work, Paul would hear Gary mutter under his breath when he thought Paul wasn't listening. All it is is hard work.

It isn't, as a matter of fact. Hard work won't get you anywhere without some kind of innate talent, the kind you were born with, and you could kick a ball at a wall every day for the rest of your life if you wanted without anything happening.

Paul shrugged. Is what it is, like. Back to school, still shite at it, found some work at the local Morrison's. Gary'd done a little better and gotten into uni, but they'd still ended up in a shoddy flat on Oxford Road together trying to make do. In the middle of all that they'd gone to a Stone Roses gig at the International and Paul had loved all of it, the crowd, the madness, the drums, just sort of smashing things to keep time. Rhythmic chaos. Almost like a football match.

Besides, he needed another way to piss off the neighbours now that he wasn't kicking balls around.

Gotten pretty good at it, too - the drums, also pissing off the neighbours - although he'd never thought much about it, chained as he was to a supermarket counter and also the constant tragedy of being asked why he hadn't shagged anyone lately at pubs.

Until Gary. Things always had a bad habit of being thought about more around Gary.

 

 

 

"What d'you want to call this band, then?"

It's been three days and Gary's still harping on about it, which probably means that Paul's going to have to suffer through at least the early stages. They're sat in some fried chicken place past Rusholme that spells disaster for their cholesterol levels.

"Dunno," Gary mumbles through a mouthful of oil. "We can ask the other lads."

"Other lads?"

"Whoever else is joining the band, obviously." Gary shakes his head as if the clarity of his logic outweighed the immense stupidity of the idea. "Which reminds me. We need to do up an advert and everything."

"Who's gonna do that?"

"Phil said he could."

Paul scoffs. Gary's little brother is sweeter than a sugar cube but just about as useful when it comes to doing anything. A while back he'd rung Paul up, close to tears because he didn't know how to boil water.

"Assuming it isn't just a post-it with handwriting. Where do we put it?"

"Notice boards. Summat."

"What are we gonna play? Our own stuff?"

"Dunno. Have you written anything?"

"I've written nowt. Where are we gonna play?"

"Somewhere that'll take us."

"You've thought this all out, haven't you?"

"Fuck off," Gary says, waving a chicken wing around to emphasise his invitation. "I'll figure summat out. You know me."

They'll have a filofax by the end of the week. Paul sighs and takes a big bite out of his greasy chicken. With any luck he'll be hospitalised or dead before this madcap plan takes off.

 

 

 

_GUITARIST AND SINGER WANTED FOR NEW BAND CALL GARY 07955843256 TO APPLY_

 

 

 

The door slams open and Gary careens into the room, dragging a boy behind him. This is not unprecedented - for all that Gary resembled a starving rat he was strangely popular (coming back to find his roommate Getting It On with a pretty blonde was not something Paul recommended). But Paul happens to be sat on Gary's bed raiding his biscuit drawer, and where Gary would usually throw a strop today he does no such thing.

"D'you remember David?" he screeches instead, quite ignoring Paul's criminal activity as he flings readings off chairs. "Does fashion at the uni."

Paul hazards a look and pulls a face. Said pretty blonde grins shyly back at him.

"Hard to forget."

"Turns out he can sing."

"Yeah?"

"A little," says David. He sounds like if one of those balloon animals could talk. Paul's not convinced.

"Go on." Gary nods at his recently cleared chair and David takes a seat, looking vaguely appalled at the mess the two boys have managed to create. "Pretend it's an audition."

"What?"

"You've got to sing otherwise Scholesy will chuck you out as a fraud."

Good to know that Gary hadn't missed the expression on Paul's face. David swivels his head from one of them to the other, realises that his choices are exceedingly limited, and opens his mouth.

He might sound like a car brake squeaking with a Cockney accent ordinarily, but David's singing voice is - different. He's picked a Smiths song and spun it into something light, high, sonorous without being airy. The edges are unpolished, but no one's asking for a second Freddie here. He's close enough as is.

Gary glances over at Paul and tilts his head.

"Mm," Paul says when David finishes and looks at them expectantly. "We might have to work out a system where Gary's the one who talks between songs."

David's so offended he bursts into laughter. Okay, Paul thinks, we can do something with this.

 

 

 

"I did up a list of questions," Gary announces, flattening out the foolscap pad on which Paul had erroneously assumed he'd been doing some work. "Just to see if they'd slot in with the band, y'know."

"Can't we just ask them to play?" The idea of interviews - whichever side he's on - is extremely off-putting.

"There's important things we should know, Scholesy." Gary pushes the pad over insistently. Paul takes it with some measure of trepidation.

"How come David didn't need an interview? Found everything out by sticking your tongue down his throat, did you?"

"Fuck off." It's becoming Gary's favourite phrase as of late. Paul scans through the questions quick:

_Who are your musical influences?_

_Why do you want to join a band?_

_What instruments can you play?_

_-ASK THEM TO PLAY HERE-_

_Where do you see us in five years?_

_Do you have any band name suggestions?_

_City or United?_

As long as Gary does all the talking and it doesn't cut into his telly time, he supposes they're decent enough questions. Even though he'd still go down the sticking-tongue-down-throat route if he were pressed. "Are you gonna turn away everyone who says 'City' for the last one?" he asks.

"Yes," Gary says grimly.

 

 

 

Five people ring Gary up and five times Paul's telly time is cut into. He vehemently refuses to have his private space invaded anymore, pretty blondes or not, so Gary uses Phil's room in their house instead.

"I didn't mind," Phil says by way of forgiveness, obviously having minded.

Most of it is bobbins. Two people say City and are immediately banished; one doesn't watch football and is treated to a mini five-minute breakdown; and of the two who do like United, one can't play the guitar for owt and the other one is late.

They've been sat there for twenty minutes and Paul's about to physically expire when finally there's a knock on the door. The languidness of the boy who saunters in tells them that he isn't sorry at all. Which, to be fair, is a very rock-star attitude.

He does look a bit like a rock star, Paul thinks. All slim like, but not in a skinny way; he moves like he's gliding over the carpet, he's pulling off the denim on denim with careless abandon, and he's got curly hair that falls into his eyes like one of them new boy bands.

Well. Fuck.

"You're late," Gary says, the crease in his face getting dangerously close to Defcon 1.

"Name's Giggs," the boy says instead, standing in front of them with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slouched. "Ryan Giggs."

"All right, James Bond," Gary retorts, taking Paul by surprise with his use of a pop culture reference that didn't involve football. "You're still late."

"Won't happen again." Ryan grins. He doesn't seem to be taking this seriously at all.

Gary coughs and looks down at his rumpled foolscap pad. "City or United?" he asks. Paul'd made him move this question up to first since there was a 50% chance the rest would be a waste of time.

"United. From Salford, so."

"Who are your influences?"

"Anything that vibes. Like a good bassline. And drummer. Anything that's played like they want to play."

"Why d'you want to join a band?"

Ryan shrugs. "Thought I'd be good at it."

"Thought?" Paul interjects. It's the first time he's said anything to anyone. Gary looks like he's just heard a ghost.

Ryan switches his gaze from Gary to Paul for the first time. He nods contemplatively, like he's sizing Paul up (relatively easy, given how small Paul is), and his grin widens. "Knew," he says.

Paul holds the stare longer, unblinking, then turns back to Gary. "Fuck the questions." He jerks his head towards the guitar in the corner of the room. "Let's hear him play."

Just as languidly as he'd come in, Ryan pads over to the guitar and picks it up. It slips into his fingers like water.

There're just some things you know, in realms as intangible as music, as football. Beautiful without explanation. And Paul knows even before Ryan plays the first note that Ryan's going to be the best guitar player he's ever heard.

It's a quick solo lick that he's not heard before, a mishmash of eclectic bluesy notes that would have sounded tuneless in anyone else's hands. But Ryan somehow manages to make it work. He's closed his eyes, leaned back and down, his long fingers barely touching the strings. Glorious in its discordance. In the whole performance he gives, swaying a little on his heels, brimming with charisma and confidence.

Only when he finishes does Paul remember he's in Phil's crummy room listening to a battered second-hand guitar. Ryan's still smiling at them, although it's a little different, as if they've been let in on a secret.

"Well," Gary says after a pause. "Never be late again and we'll get on."

"Got it, boss."

"Are you a student or summat?"

Ryan shakes his head. "Me and me mate Butty work at a builders near Prestwich." He pauses - "you wouldn't need a roadie, would you? Butty knows how to do loads of things."

 _Butty_. It's hard to forget a name like that. There was a boy called Nicky Butt who used to play with them at Boundary Park, before Gary. They'd gotten on well enough, before they'd both moved on; Nicky was always talking about this great mate of his who'd almost made it for United.

"Oh," he says. "You're that Ryan."

Ryan's smile tightens.

"Yeah."

Gary senses a Change of Topic in the air and steps hurriedly in. "Why don't you bring Butty along next time? Leave your number and we'll get in touch."

Ryan fishes a pen out of his pocket and scribbles almost illegibly on Gary's foolscap pad, nods again, then saunters out the way he came in without so much as another word.

Gary looks at Paul, who's staring at the door, not sure what just happened.

" _That_ Ryan?"

"Ryan Wilson." He supposes he's changed his name. "Butty took me to see him once, for the youth team. Broke his leg in two places at sixteen."

"How was he?"

Paul remembers the gliding, over the grass instead of the carpet, the sway of his feet with the ball.

"Best player I ever saw," he says.

 

 

 

It's Loads of Things Nicky who finds a proper practice space for them in the end; turns out the uni doesn't have rehearsal spaces and renting one from the music school all the time is shit on the wallet. Nicky knows the mate of a dad of a mate (or something; he seemed to be purposely vague) who has a small warehouse unit on the outskirts of Hulme. The deal is that they can play there as long as they cough up for all the gear themselves, which Gary takes up with a boundless energy no one else can match. Paul doesn't see him for days on end, and while the peace and quiet is welcome, it's also cause for mild concern.

"Don't you have work, like?" Paul asks as Gary comes in one day, paint dripped all over him and panting.

"There's only two things to do in Manchester, Scholesy," Gary says, eyes gleaming with an almost religious zeal. "Football and music. We're not doing one, we'll do the other."

Football and music. That's what they'd said when Thatcher'd come in and all their Das had lost their jobs; football and music, the only things stringing Manchester along, keeping its head above water. You walked down the disheveled council estates and you saw lemons drawn into the brick. Went to the shop and there was a bunch of lads with red scarves on. Football and music, beautiful without explanation. Manchester, beautiful. They had nowt else but that.

 

 

 

The first time they're all sat in the room it's winter come early and they're slowly turning into human popsicles, heater predictably broken. Phil (no one knows who invited him; he just sort of showed up) goes around distributing apples and bags of crisps.

"So that you feel better about being an unhealthy pig," he says in response to Paul's quirked eyebrow.

Gary, to his credit and the complete detriment of schoolwork, has turned it into a proper space. He's squeezed a drum set in, hooked up electricity, and even fixed them up with some knackered sofa he'd found the uni trying to get rid of. Dried red paint slops everywhere - he'd attempted to do up a devil on one corner, operative word attempted - and it feels incomplete, but to be fair the best makeshift band spaces feel incomplete.

"How much did this cost you?" Ryan asks, blinking.

Gary shrugs. "Well within budget. Had to cadge some off me da, but I promised to pay him back soon as we got our first gig."

"You're well confident," Nicky says, arms folded, slouched against the wall.

"He's always this confident," Paul says. "Tires you right out."

"Has anyone mentioned how we don't have a band name yet?" David squeaks from his corner on the sofa. They'll really need to get someone to dub him.

"Mm. Yeah." Gary looks around. "Anyone got any ideas?"

"Butt's Boys?"

Paul kicks lazily out from where he's sat on the floor, Nicky yelping in indignation as he's hooked to the ground.

"Is everyone called Butt that much of an arsehole?"

"Come over and find out."

"It oughta start with a The," Phil interjects earnestly. "All the good bands start with a The."

This comment invites a flurry of comments, half quiz answers and half personal attack.

"Joy Division. New Order."

"Happy Mondays. Inspiral Carpets."

"Herman's bleeding Hermits."

"Aren't you s'posed to be at school, Philip?"

"Leave it out. As if you haven't ever wagged school before."

"Even the newer ones. Blur. Oasis. Suede. Them's all one word, like."

"You don't really say the The in Stone Roses, do yous?"

"You do in The Beatles, though."

" _Philip why aren't you at school._ "

"Well, I," Phil stammers, suddenly aware of the lull in conversation and five pairs of eyes trained on him, "they gave us a day off?"

"He wants to be in the band," Paul translates.

"Finish your GCSEs and then we'll talk."

"But Gaz - "

Gary gives him a look that sends Phil tripping over his crisps and apples in an attempt to flee the room faster than humanly possible. There's a beat of silence, and then the rest of the lads jump back into the discussion, more animated by the second, swearing at each other's suggestions like they'd said _fuck Jesus_ in church.

It's almost - warm. Paul knows he makes no sense and he wouldn't be able to describe it anyhow, but it's there. The way they bounce off each other like they've known each other for years. Like a blanket. One of those things in life - serendipitous, like, even if he can't spell it properly - that feels like it was going to happen, that they were going to all meet and be mates, in this universe or the next.

"Oi. Scholesy. What's so interesting about the middle distance?"

Ryan grins at him as Paul blinks, rejoining earth and the conversation. Ryan, he's decided, is the sort who watches people very carefully, not so much putting the observations to good use so much as to be right fucking annoying.

"Nothing." Paul ignores the grin. "Shouldn't we just have a go before we even bother with the band name?"

"True, that." Nicky stabs a finger at Gary. "Bet yous he can't even play."

"Fuck off."

Another beat as they bustle to get to their instruments, yanking various things out of cases, David tapping on the microphone and wincing at the whine of the feedback from the speaker. "Got to get someone to look into that," Gary mutters absently as he twiddles with the peg heads of his bass. "Got it off a club for cheap. Guess we know why now."

"I know a guy," Nicky says from his spot on the floor. Paul's fairly sure at this point that Nicky knows all of Manchester.

Paul settles in behind the drum kit. Picks up the sticks, twirls one. Catches Ryan looking at him again; the smile's gone, replaced by a hard, inscrutable look. He hits a brief tattoo out, feeling rebellious.

"What're we playing?"

"Roses," Ryan says. "Resurrection."

A pause. "Fuck off," Gary retorts, glancing at Paul. Everyone who's anyone knows just how hard it is to cover Reni's drumming; Paul's given it a go too many times himself, but there's something about the marching band effortlessness that no one can replicate.

"Why not?" Ryan shrugs. "It's one of 'em songs that everyone knows, innit. Don't need to learn it or anything."

Bullshit. It's a challenge. Ryan knows it. Ryan with his jammy keks and wizardry over six strings, who wants to see whether the band's good enough for him.

Fuck that. Paul twirls his sticks and drags the snare towards him, then sets down his pedal. Rests the tips against the batter head. The flat, dry clarity of the snare rattles the silence. One. Two. Threefourfivesix. One. Two. Threefourfivesix.

Gary rolls his eyes and comes in on the ninth bar with a low B. Bass players always get stick for having the easiest parts, but there's a knack for it all the same. A line, a frame of mind. Gary holds it with his eyebrows knit together and his mouth turned downwards. He slides into Paul's rhythm easily, locking in with the snare. They've played together so long that this is simpler than breathing.

David holds the mic with two hands. Presses his lips into it. The hunched intimacy of Morrissey with the oblivious swagger of Brown, and something wholly new.

 _Down down, you bring me down_.

Eleven bars drums-bass-voice. Paul knows that Ryan's watching but refuses to look up at him. Drops into the music instead, the way he's seen Reni do in the dank basement clubs before they were even a thing. Don't follow the notes. Let the notes take you.

Twelve bars and then the guitar riff on the thirteen. It's a short line, seven notes, not much that you could do anything with. Sure he hits the notes perfectly, but anyone can.

_Your face, it has no place._

That's another reason why Ryan chose this, Paul thinks, threefourfivesix. Three verses before the chorus kicks in until everyone's hanging off of their seat begging for it. The rise of beat until it _hits_ and it's like - s'like you're high is what it's like, pumped up and throat raw, exhilaration through your veins. The jam afterwards even more psychedelic; full bassline, shimmering cymbals, the heady guitar notes bouncing up and down the scale. The whole song is buildup and release. Explosion. Orgasm. Eight minutes of needing and bleeding and losing yourself.

Snare, tom, floor tom. Pause start go.

Ryan's guitar comes in stronger now, a bunch of nonsense notes filling in the empty space between David's voice and the rhythm. Paul's never noticed that before. Squire's melody makes no sense - he's not even sure you can write it down - and so Ryan seizes the confusion, revels in it. Slick little hammer ons, bends and slides, tricks that make the sound his own and not his own.

Two verses and the third. Build. Drums-bass-voice-guitar. Four parts and build. _Don't waste your words I don't need anything from you -_ Paul raises his head defiant, raps his sticks on the snare. Doesn't need anything. It's a curb-stomp, a defiance, a massive fuck you. Manchester-made. God is dead. Jesus who?

_I am the resurrection and I am the life_

David eyes closed. Gary frowning. Ryan rolling his hips into the body of his guitar.

One, two, three four. The low hum of bass. A sweep of drums down and back to skittering on the hi-hat. David steps back from the mic and leans into the music, an intoxicating, rollicking, sonic thrill you can't explain or write about or even listen to, only feel.

Everything fades. The room. The rest of the band. Only he exists and then even he isn't here, only the sketch of the beat, iridescent, effervescent. All of him and all of this - all of. All of. I am the Resurrection. I am the Life.

And too quickly it's the stop in the middle, the guitar striking up quiet. Back to earth. Back to being people again. Gary falling away. Just the two of them now. Ryan echoes the bass riff that started the song, over and over, like a wave cascading. Paul flashes across the cymbals, the snare. One, two, threefourfivesix. Just the two of them left. Just them. Dazzling, glimmering, silence.

Paul looks up. His cheeks are flushed; he can't hear his own breath. Ryan's looking back at him, and there's a slow smile spread across his face, rapt.

No one says a word. Paul feels so tired he might sleep for a hundred years. He drops his sticks to the floor. They roll towards Nicky, silent all this time, who picks them up and holds them tight.

 

 

 

"Hey."

Paul's pulled back by a hand around his arm. Ryan's grip is vice-like and stubborn, even when he tries to shrug it off with a growl.

"Bugger off."

"Will not."

Faced with the prospect of captivity either way Paul sighs and turns around to face Ryan, wrenching his arm out of the grip. "What d'you want?"

"I want you," Ryan says, and leaves such a long pause that Paul's almost worried it was the end of the sentence, "to like me."

"Who said I don't?"

"Your face. Everything about you."

Christ. Paul's going to kill Gary for abandoning him to this fate in favour of sodding debate club.

"I don't like anyone." His mouth curls. "You're not special."

"Yeah, but I am." Ryan's grin is infuriating. "Special."

And he's right, but fuck if Paul's going to admit it. "Stop following me," he says instead, twisting back to get on with walking as if it's imperative he get there soon (it isn't). "Stalkers aren't endearing."

"I'll see you next week, then," Ryan calls after him. He sounds strangely cheerful, all things considered; it sticks in Paul's head even when he's gotten home, an infuriating interruption to an otherwise perfect night of microwaved dinner and _Antiques Roadshow_ that he can't quite seem to shake.

 

 

 

"That bastard," he says two days later, jolting Gary out of a particularly crap presentation he'd been practicing in the mirror. "He said Scholesy."

"What?"

"Giggs. He called me Scholesy at practice." Paul scoffs. "I don't even know him. He chose that song just to spite me."

Gary looks at him like he absolutely couldn't give a fuck, something he's obviously picked up from their spending too much time together.

"If you're only pissed off now then it can't be all bad, can it?"

Paul goes back to swirling his food around, spag bol that looks so crummy dogs would probably give it a miss. It isn't Ryan calling him that which bothers him. It's that it took him two days to notice - just like what Gary said - so maybe it can't be all bad. Which means Ryan can't be all bad. Which can't be good.

"Oh, shut up." Gary's caught his expression and takes a break from the mirror to sit down. "It'd you good to have more than two friends."

"Who's my other friend?"

"Phil, obviously."

"Huh. I forgot."

Gary reaches across the table and pats his arm kindly.

"Can't stay a hermit cashier forever, mate."

"I could try," Paul says, with less conviction than he wanted.

 

 

Next week and another go, and it feels like trying to climb a tree for the first time, arms and legs everywhere not knowing how to hang on. They puts some blues riffs in, some post-punk, Nicky even tinkering around with a keyboard, but nothing clicks the way it did the first time.

They're being too ambitious. It'll come, slowly. They're young and they have a lot to learn. More listening to tapes. More learning their own instruments. "Basics aren't bad," Paul says when he sees Gary getting fidgety. "Everyone starts from somewhere, like."

"Covers now don't mean covers always," Phil adds earnestly from where he's spending half term pointlessly rephrasing sentiments already expressed.

"Uh-huh." Gary slings off his guitar and puts it back on the rack. "No rush. Only got us a gig for new year's."

Silence, and then talking all at once - _what, are you joking, how, that's too soon, what name did you give, who, where, it's not some shit school prom thing is it_ \- and Gary begins to laugh because what can you say - you're climbing that tree and suddenly you've reached a branch, and you're pulling yourself up, and it isn't the top but you can see the roof of your house from here, a shitty flat angle where it's barely visible. Still you can see it. Still you can climb.

 

 

 

"Hey, Scholesy - "

Paul's more prepared this time and rattles a " _Paul_ " out before Ryan can finish whatever it is he wanted to say. "Scholesy's for friends."

" _Scholesy,_ " Ryan says firmly. "Wanna have dinner with me?"

"What?"

"Tonight. I've got nothing on. Have you got anything on?"

"No - " Paul starts because it's so out of the blue that he forgets to lie, and Ryan grins at him broadly.

"I'll see you at Cornerhouse, all right? At seven?"

And before Paul can say anything Ryan's down the street, whistling.

  


 

So.

It's just dinner and not a date, Paul tells himself, which is why he doesn't bother changing before going downstairs. Same road anyway, and he's had food there before, standard cafe type stuff with coffee. He doesn't tell Gary where he's going and Gary stares at him suspiciously all the way till he's out the door.

Ryan's got a table in the corner. He's dressed up like he's going clubbing after this, all flash blazer and white shirt, but he grins up wide at Paul as he walks over.

"You're looking jammy."

Paul sits down and stares.

"Haçienda later," Ryan says, looking down at his kit. "I'd ask you along but I imagine you aren't that sort."

"No. Are you buying?"

"What?"

"Dinner."

Ryan bursts out laughing. "I guess I should, me dressed like this and you looking like a bum."

"That's 'cos I am one, innit. Ever consider donating your clothes?"

"You'd never pull these off."

 

 

 

It - goes well, after that. It takes him by surprise.

 

 

 

They walk along the Rochdale canal after, a short walk to the Haçienda, hands in pockets. Getting dark and people are just buzzing to life on the streets. All sorts they get here; Paul tells Ryan that once this fella in brogues and a tweed suit had tried to sell him E.

"Did you buy any?"

"'Course. It'd've been rude not to."

The canal on one side and Manchester on the other; Paul nods as Ryan joins the line at the entrance then looks past it, Deansgate in the distance, steel pylons and dank grass below. Tracks all over, tram and train. Always a railroad city, bridge, brick, football and music.

He tilts his head back at the doors to the nightclub but Ryan's already gone inside. Stands there another second or two, then heads for home.

 

 

 

Nothing happens after that. They clear up whatever it was sat between them; Ryan tells him why he picked the song and Paul gets it, in a way, even though he wonders what else could have been meant. Ryan's still a dick and Paul's still a misanthrope but he finds that it's easier, once you understood Ryan and the way he was. Childhood in Cardiff not wanting to move to Manchester and football the only thing that had given him hope, the only thing to challenge him, make him breathe. By the time that dream ended it was too late to go anywhere else. The city sucked you in like that.

It's not all bad. We've got less sheep than Cardiff, Paul points out, and Ryan laughs.

 

 

 

 

"The Waterfront."

Ryan's invitation had helped break the ice some but Paul still prefers to keep his commentary to the occasional witty barb, so when he does speak everyone turns to look at him.

"Manchester, like," he continues, cheeks burning. "Bricks and water. We were outside the Haçienda the other day and that was it."

Gary makes a triumphant little noise of realisation.

But David's nodding. "Yeah," he says, juggling the microphone between his hands. "I could dig it."

"No one says _dig it_ anymore," says Nicky, scandalised, but for all that hipster Cockney the words are scrawled in spray paint on a plastic board and hung above them the next practice. Waterfront. Phil looks at Paul when he sees it next and grins.

"I told you," he says. "All the good bands start with a The."

 

 

 

With a name it feels like _something_ , it feels tangible, a creation. It means they've got a phrase to put at the end of the songs they cobble together, slowly but surely on Gary's old essays and the backs of receipts. All of them have a go, even David, who ends up being pretty awful at it.

"It doesn't have to rhyme," Gary says one day in exasperation. "And even if it did _things_ and _stinks_ don't remotely sound the same."

The music starts, always, with this: Ryan's guitar and Paul's drums. From the avant-garde jazz bullshit they've gone back to what they know best, a Resurrection-esque beat and a jangly riff. It sounds like the Roses but it isn't - good artists borrow and great artists steal or however the saying goes.

Then add the bass line. Gary knows exactly what Paul's like and fits himself to it. Just the way he does things; no goals but beautiful crosses flicked into the box.

And finally lyrics David can't write but can well sing - never too high or low they hang in that perfect space between. Paul thinks of a crowded room and the sudden burst of fresh air above everyone's heads, just below the ceiling. Like that.

They come together ridiculous, riotous, without head or tail or shape or form. Everyone thinking differently. Even Butty interjects here and there - _bring that line down, cut the bit about love it sounds awful_ \- and Paul remembers those two months as a fog, long and mazy. Paper and crisps strewn everywhere. All of them draped over the sofa sleeping more often than not. Phil stopping by sometimes when GCSEs were boring him out of his skull, bearing apples and a general concern for their health.

On Saturdays they'd troop out to the nearest pub and catch the game or try to sneak into Old Trafford, up a fence Ryan knew. Just to sneak a look at Robson and Ferguson. United were challenging for the title and it felt bright. Crazy. A time to be alive.

The golden days of youth, they'd call this years down the road. Both the beginning and the end. A moment where it felt right, just where they were.

 

 

 

Lying on the sofa listening to Blur when Nicky at the window says, "anyone up for a kickabout?", because the snow outside is falling and it's any boy's dream to play a called-off game. They scramble to get their shoes on and tramp out the door in their jumpers, staring at each other: "well, who's got the ball?" asks Gary and that sets everyone off.

Finally someone finds one, left in a corner against a ratty-looking fence. They spread out. This isn't a game - there're too few people - and at first they just kick it around instead, feeling silly.

"You wonder how anyone likes this," David says. "Just a ball at your feet - "

Paul darts in and snatches the ball from him, twigs it to Gary, and suddenly -

That's what there is to like. You know. Five of them bashing about in the snow, yelling, no sense of position or purpose but none of that - you felt. Didn't matter what you felt, but it was there.

They're all good players. Even David who's not played for Boundary Park before has loads of skill, deft with his weight. But Ryan, of course - he touches the ball like silk. A turn of his feet and he leaves Gary panting in the snow, another one makes Nicky's well-timed tackle seem wild. He's flying, untouchable.

Paul pictures him in the kit, arms just out. The perfect balance. Weaving between defenders, tricking them with nothing more than a shift in his step. Moves so simple they were water.

After a half-hour the sun's going down and Gary says, "this is bullying," even though Paul can tell that he's stupid impressed. Ryan grins and picks the ball up, tucks it under his arm.

"We'd win the league next year if I were playing," he says. It isn't self-pity, only a statement.

Paul lies down as the rest wander back, stares up. Snow packs the collar of his shirt and down his neck. There's a rustle and he looks over to find Ryan lying next to him, head resting on his hands, pressed behind.

"I saw you for the youth team," he says. "Long time ago."

"I know. Butty told me."

"You're just as good as you were then - "

"It doesn't matter," Ryan says, turning his head to meet Paul's eyes. "They can't take that sort of chance."

"But if you wanted to - "

"It doesn't matter, Scholesy. Honest." He grins, leans over fully, propping himself up on his arm. "Besides, I wouldn't be here with you if not, would I?"

Snowflakes in his dark hair. Paul reaches up lazily to brush them away. The kiss seemed an inevitability, Ryan dipping his head and pressing close, his chest warm under the thin cotton of his shirt.

 

 

 

The gig isn't a shit school prom but something close, a dank bar on Oldham Street frequented by teenagers pissed out of their skulls. "The bright side," Gary says with what's meant to be an encouraging tone, "is that they'll be so drunk they won't even notice how bad we are."

"How much are we getting for this again?" David asks.

"Minus transport and stuff it's sixty quid for the set, maybe more if anyone tips us."

"No, I mean for having to listen to you."

Gary shoves David almost off his perch and the rest burst out laughing, six boys crammed at the back of a moving van with all sorts of equipment falling around them. It's bright. Crazy.

They yank their instruments off the back, Butty going in first to sort things out with the management. Guitar cases and drumsticks clattering all over the place. The stage is wooden and tiny and there's barely any floor for the wires, but it's their first gig. The first branch. _THE WATERFRONT_ , it probably says on some sign outside.

The microphone whines to life. Soundcheck, a few bars - uh huh, David nods, digging it. Paul taps his sticks together. People streaming in now, giving them a cursory glance. Butty comes back with the details. On till ten and then some other band will come on; they'll have to work for the midnight slot.

"Next year, then," Phil says optimistically. "Ninety-two is our year, I can feel it."

"What d'you mean _our_ year," snorts Gary, "you'll be busy with your GCSEs."

"Yeah, well, I'll come help after June, won't I?"

"Ninety-two is the year we disband, then," Paul says, and Phil pulls a face. David's just about to say something along the lines of _lads, lads, let's be nice_ when a bored-looking bloke comes up to them.

"Five minutes, please."

"Good luck, you wankers," Butty says cheerfully, and troops back with Phil into the curtains while the bloke reads their name off a piece of paper in his hand.

Paul can't feel anything except a buzzing in his ears. Can't see anything except all the people, and there're so many people - ten would've been a lot to him, never played in front of anyone else before. He's glad his parents couldn't come. Glad none of theirs could. The light shines too-bright into his face and his sticks fall by his side.

"Hey."

He looks up. He'd thought it was Ryan but it's Gary looking at him, idiot Gary who started off this whole thing, his madcap idea. _I'll figure summat out. You know me._ And here, suddenly, without expectation - a real gig. Real songs. _I'm always in,_ Paul had said, because deep down he did know Gary, better than anyone else. He had always known this would happen.

"We did this," Gary says, his voice so soft Paul almost doesn't catch it. "We're doing this."

Paul curls his toes tight. Looks at Gary, David, Ryan. Ryan gives him a wink that makes Paul feel like punching him.

 

 

 

 

When we played Resurrection, he'd asked at dinner. You picked that song just to piss me off. No one can play like Reni.

Yeah, I know.

That's why I don't like you. Why'd you have to go do that?

Because I wanted you to know how good you were.

Wait -

Besides, what's life without a little challenge? Feels like breathing. D'yknow what I mean?

 

 

 

 

Feel like - feels like. Doesn't matter what it feels like, just so long as it's there. The light. The stage. Football and music, nowt else but that.

Paul twirls his sticks and drags the snare towards him, then sets down his pedal. Rests the tips against the batter head. The flat, dry clarity of the snare rattles the silence. One. Two.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title from [One Love](https://genius.com/The-stone-roses-one-love-lyrics), from which it's just come to my attention the [Stretty banner](https://farm4.staticflickr.com/3162/2836104559_2b73730faf.jpg) is taken  
> \- It's '91; Gaz studies politics ([uni](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeline_of_tuition_fees_in_the_United_Kingdom#1962_-_1998) [was](http://www.historyandpolicy.org/policy-papers/papers/university-fees-in-historical-perspective) [free](https://www.theguardian.com/education/2010/oct/12/tuition-fees-student-finance-history)), Scholesy works at Morrison's, Ryanbutt are builders, Becks studies fashion, Phil's doing his [GCSEs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GCE_Advanced_Level_\(United_Kingdom\)). [More about that nineties life.](https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/sep/14/this-is-england-90-when-working-class-still-had-hope) [Manchester in ye old days.](https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/news/nostalgia/gallery/step-back-time-castlefields-past-11175229) [More photos!](https://confidentials.com/manchester/this-is-manchester-60-photos-from-the-1990s)  
> \- [I checked how long Emmerdale ran](https://www.google.com/url?q=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emmerdale)  
> \- [The International](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Stone_Roses_live_performances)  
> \- Apparently Ian Brown used to run a soul club at Hulme lmao  
> \- Som stuff about Reni, his genius n the drums he used: [x](http://www.pearleurope.com/artist/reni/) [x](https://www.gearslutz.com/board/so-much-gear-so-little-time/85521-stone-roses-drums.html) [x](https://professionalmoron.com/2017/07/19/reni-drumming-genius-singing-ubiquitous-bucket-hats/). I also watched [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N5p9nHzXqWQ) & [this](https://www.songsterr.com/a/wsa/the-stone-roses-i-am-the-resurrection-drum-tab-s24332t3) a lot tryna figure the drums. Did you want to know more about drums? Never fear, I am here! [x](https://www.vsl.co.at/en/Snare_drum/Sound_Characteristics/) [x](https://www.moderndrummer.com/2014/12/need-know-snare-drums/) [x](https://www.moderndrummer.com/article/august-2018-what-you-need-to-know-about-snare-drum-heads/)  
> \- [Resurrection](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vY9g-PgSiGA). I never thought my grade 5 theory would come in handy for fwic!  
> \- [Cornerhouse](https://www.manchestereveningnews.co.uk/whats-on/food-drink-news/manchester-pubs-bars-from-past-10968361)  
> \- The Waterfront is a name the Roses almost used  
> \- [Have u ever wondered where the phrase 'dig it' comes from???](https://www.phrases.org.uk/bulletin_board/62/messages/654.html)  
> \- United almost won the league in 91/92! wails. Giggsy did play in the league next year and we did win, so!!  
> \- [The bar](https://lovinmanchester.com/sponsored/feature/13-manchester-nightclubs-where-we-all-went-that-are-now-sadly-closed)  
> \- A gig's about $300 these days which [roughly works out](http://www.in2013dollars.com/uk/inflation/1990?amount=80)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


End file.
